


The Leader, The Pariah

by sasha_b



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Comment Fic, Community: comment_fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 09:11:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1299517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles and Bass and a pile of rubble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Leader, The Pariah

**Author's Note:**

> For LJ community comment fic, prompt "almost getting caught." Set during the later days of the Monroe Republic.
> 
> Title courtesy of 30STM.

"Did you hear that?"

"What? Kinda busy here."

Miles tilts his head, trying to look over the pile of rubble they're laying behind. Actually, laying _on_ , which isn't exactly comfortable on his back, but he doesn't care about that, as it's been a fucking _age_ since he's been able to touch Bass the way he wants. However, the sound of booted feet - the militia, coming back from patrol - is not conducive to the comfort he'd imagined.

"That. The men are coming back, Bass. We need to move."

"I am moving. Or don't you feel that?"

Miles sucks in a harsh breath and snatches at the closest thing to him, which ends up being Bass' curly hair. The other man has had it cut recently, and it's not as long as Miles (won't admit to anyone) likes it, but he still gets purchase as wet heat surrounds him and he bites his lip and tries not to close his eyes. The men are coming. back. and they can't get caught. They're outside, the moon bright, shining on Bass' shoulders (bare, white ass white) and for a brief second he wonders what will happen if they're found out.

Not that some of the men don't know what's going on; Sebastian Monroe will do whatever the fuck he wants, thanks, as will Miles, but … he sighs as Bass takes him deeper and he pulls a face and grabs at the other man's hair more tightly and looks up at the moon and stars and tries to hunker down behind the piles of rocks and detritus and listens to the chatter and stomp of booted feet not ten feet from where he's getting a blow job from the president of the Monroe Republic.

He laughs.

Bass smiles around him - Miles can feel it, and he huffs a noise and comes faster than he'd wanted to, rubble biting into his bare butt and Bass' hair tangled between his fingers.

"Shit."

Miles collapses, boneless against the stone behind him, and Bass sits up, wiping his mouth, lips fat and red, self satisfied grin on his face. The smile doesn't reach his eyes, though, and that forces the frown on Miles' face to expand, the lines on his forehead thick and pronounced.

"Better?"

"Nothing was wrong in the first place, Bass," Miles bites off, and rubs a hand over his dirt smeared sweaty face. "Shit. The men are back. They could have fucking found us." He stretches his long legs out - his boots are falling apart. General Matheson should look much more presentable than that. He's the Butcher of Baltimore, after all. 

Thoughts tickle his brain as they have been for a few months now. Thoughts that are dangerous and seditious and make him fucking sad. He composes his face as he turns eyes on Bass, his oldest friend, the only person that can make him _forget_ a little bit, if only for a little while. And yet, Bass is the only person that makes him _remember_ everything too. And therein lies the problem.

He needs a drink.

He rises, refastening his pants, and sticks a hand out to Bass, helping the other man get to his feet. Bass' uniform is neat and his clothing clean and his boots shiny and laced to his knees. The only sign anything is amiss is the wildness of his short curls -

"General!"

Miles snaps to attention and turns, praying to god his lingering boner is invisible beneath his camo jacket. "Captain," he says, his voice low and calm, despite the dislike that makes his gut twist at the sight of Tom Neville.

"The men are ready to report, sir. Sir," Neville says hastily as he gets a sight of Monroe. "I - I didn't see you there. My apologies."

Bass is waving a hand at Neville as he rounds the pile of cement trash they'd been hiding behind. "Nevermind, Tom. Can I see you in my office? There are a few things I need to discuss with…" his voice trails off as he walks toward the tent he's set up as his headquarters, not turning back to even give Miles a post "I just fucked you with my mouth" smile or by your leave. Miles' eyes glitter in the light of the moon and he crosses his arms over his slightly askew coat. Neville looks back at Miles as he scurries like the rat he is after Monroe, his face not as worried as it should be. Miles narrows his gaze at Neville and the other man turns and follows in the wake Monroe always leaves behind him.

Miles turns on his heel and heads toward the area where they have the infantry stationed and the horses - he needs a ride and a think but when he passes the small, roped off area where they keep any prisoners they've managed to find on their raids, he hesitates, his lips twisting, his heart speeding up again as his brain clicks on, worry and thoughts of what he's been thinking about since his birthday and the bombing and _fuck's sake_ but something's gotta change.

Why, though?

He reverses direction away from the horses and foot soldiers and heads toward the area for "guests" of the Monroe Republic and rubs his face as he ducks under the trees, his brother's wife's head coming into view.


End file.
